


Selling Holmes

by Cumberiffic (2Angie2)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Angie2/pseuds/Cumberiffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Reichenbach, Sherlock meets James Moriarty again – or does he?</p><p>DISCLAIMER: Please note that this work is completely fictional in every way, shape and form! Creative writing is my hobby. I do not own any rights to the Sherlock BBC show or their characters.  I only own my characters, which are all purely fictional.  This story is loosely based upon the Sherlock BBC series.  I have taken liberties with altering timelines and some character relationships to fit my plot line</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Sherlock Holmes wound his midnight blue cashmere scarf around his neck. He removed his Belstaff overcoat from the closet and shrugged into it. Sighing, he buttoned the coat and glanced around his flat. Everything was too tidy now that John had moved out. Mrs. Hudson had insisted he get the apartment in order so as not to scare off potential flatmates. She had even helped – though she wasn't the housekeeper (as she often reminded him). All his experiments had been either binned or put out of sight.

The kitchen was immaculate. Initially he had been angry to find that the bag with the fingertips had been tossed. Then he'd apologized and made a mental note to get more from the morgue. Sherlock couldn't stand the quiet. He was used to living with John. It seemed as if John had been gone for months rather than a day. He took the envelope off the kitchen table that John had given him for safe-keeping and put it in the breast pocket of his coat.

Sherlock locked the door to his flat and took the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the landing, the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat opened.

“Good morning, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson chirped at him. “Wasn't that a beautiful wedding? And you made such a handsome best man. Oh, you need to find a lovely young lady like Mary for yourself, love.”

“Yes, it was, Mrs. Hudson,” replied Sherlock. He looked her over carefully.

“Are those false eyelashes and a new lipstick?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Certainly bright for this time of day. And those heels are rather high for grocery shopping. Do you have a date, Mrs. Hudson? I do hope it isn't with the butcher. He prefers sex rougher than you like and is preoccupied with meat – not the kind from cattle, I assure you.”

 _"Sherlock!”_ Mrs. Hudson shrieked. She blushed and shook her head. “I can't hide anything from you! Are you sure about him?”

“No, you can _not._ Yes, I _am_ sure. Good day and stay away from him.”

 Sherlock opened the front door.

 “Your insurance agent is a recent widower. Much safer bet when it comes to romance. He also has a rather large life insurance policy,” he added with a smirk.

 

 Sherlock briskly walked along Baker Street towards the Jubilee Line. Normally, he would have taken a cab but it was the heart of the London morning rush hour. Sherlock entertained himself by observing his fellow passengers until he reached his stop. The majority of the riders were office workers of varying rank with some tourists sprinkled among them. He was able to pick out two adulterers, a pickpocket and a priest in layman's clothing. The tourists were happily oblivious to the pickpocket lifting their wallets.

As the train pulled into Paddington Station, Sherlock turned to the pickpocket.

“I trust you'll be returning those?” he said coolly.

The pickpocket tossed the wallets at Sherlock, rushed out of the carriage and ran onto a waiting train bound for Heathrow. The train pulled out before anyone could stop him.

The wallets safely returned, Sherlock gave a description to the policeman on the platform, grabbed a pasty from the corner stand and left.

It was a chilly winter day. The sky held the promise of snow. Sherlock pulled up the collar of his overcoat and headed towards the Barclays. He entered the bank and impatiently waited in line for a teller to process the transaction. After a ten-minute wait, Sherlock passed the teller a large envelope containing a deposit in the names of John and Mary Watson.

John had met Dr. Morstan at a medical convention in Paris and had been delighted to find that she a private practice in London. After a year-long courtship, John had proposed. The couple had gotten married the day before with Sherlock serving as the best man. He was depositing the cheques they had received as wedding gifts. In a surprising show of generosity, Mycroft had given the Watsons a trip to Japan for a wedding gift.

They would be gone for two months, in which Sherlock had promised to supervise renovations to 222 Baker Street.

Mycroft deposited a rather large amount of money in John's bank account every month – officially for minding Sherlock. John being John, he had refused to accept the money and told Sherlock, who'd promptly told him to keep it. Six years later there was money enough for a substantial down payment. The plan was to turn the first floor into an office for private practice, the second into their living quarters and the top floor as a rental for extra income. Sherlock had been delighted with this development: the proximity of the Watsons would ensure that John could still assist Sherlock when he didn't have patients to see.

Sherlock took the deposit receipt and stuffed it in his breast pocket. As he turned to leave the bank, he noticed a man coming out of a private meeting room.

_What in God's name?_

He felt as if he had been nailed to the floor. His feet would not move.

Sherlock hadn't seen that face in four years, but he would never forget it. He willed his feet to move so he could get a better look at the man. It couldn't be! Sherlock came closer. Mid-thirties, average height, slender with brown hair and eyes. He was immaculately dressed from head to toe in bespoke shirt, tie and jacket that fit his body like a glove.

_Moriarty!_

Sherlock shook his head to clear it, but Moriarty was still there.

He continued to try and get closer without being noticed. The man was heading to the exit. Sherlock followed him outside and kept a safe distance between them. He did not wish to make his presence known – yet.

On closer inspection, the double-breasted, grey pin-striped suit was an Armani – new. The shoes were Bally black leather slip-ons, about a year old. Most disturbingly, the overwhelming intensity that had always radiated from him was gone. Sherlock frowned. Even the hair was different. Not slicked back, but styled with gel and lighter due to caramel highlights having been applied. But there was no mistaking those wicked brown eyes.

Sherlock felt chilled to the bone though the shop was well-heated. He raised his phone and snapped a photo as unobtrusively as he could.

The barista called out that the chocolate-hazelnut grand latte was ready and Moriarty approached the counter, which put him even closer to Sherlock.

“Thank you. Have a nice day." He smiled at the barista.

The teeth were even and had been recently whitened. Sherlock watched in fascination as Moriarty paused to take a sip, nodded approvingly to himself and walked out of the shop.

The voice set off warning bells in Sherlock's mind belfry. It was impossible. There was no way it could be him. Moriarty was long dead. But Sherlock had witnessed it with his own eyes.

His own words came flooding back to him:

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth._

Sherlock Holmes watched in stunned silence as James Moriarty walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written over a year ago and lost when my hard-drive failed! :-) It was originally written as a birthday gift for my proofreader, L. This was my first attempt after several years' hiatus from writing, and my first try at writing Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock left Starbucks just in time to see Moriarty hail a cab. Sherlock hailed the next empty cab, flashed Lestrade's I.D. and gave the driver twenty quid up-front with strict instructions to follow Moriarty's cab as closely as possible.

The cabbie flashed him a grin. “Right away, Detective-Inspector. I've not had a plain-clothes in my cab before.”

“Yes, lovely, now hurry up,” Sherlock snapped. “And don't talk.”

After making a brief stop at a chemist, Moriarty's cab pulled up in front of a small boutique hotel near Hyde Park. Sherlock got out of the cab and ducked into a nearby bookshop. Moriarty disappeared into the hotel, whistling softly. Sherlock waited several minutes and followed him inside when he spied the doorman busy giving directions to a tourist.

It was a small, elegant, wood-paneled lobby with a bar and restaurant that obviously catered to the posh. Some guests were finishing up a late breakfast in the anteroom. The harried desk clerk was busy checking out guests, there was no one at the bell desk, and the luggage trolley was missing; Sherlock slipped past them with ease and pretended to study the restaurant's menu.

Moriarty was seated at the concierge's desk with his back to Sherlock, animatedly chatting with the concierge.

“Thank you, thank you! This is just fabulous! I haven't been able to get tickets to see _Wicked_ at home. Can you imagine, darling? I had to come all the way to London to see it.” Moriarty clapped his hands together and laughed delightedly.

“I'm sure you'll love it! Everyone raves about it. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Crane?” the concierge asked pleasantly.

_He's using an alias. How clever of him to play the part of a tourist!_

Moriarty certainly was a good actor. After all, he had managed to seduce the press and convince the whole country that Sherlock had been a fraud.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Moriarty's “performance” had forced him to fake his own death and go into hiding for three years until he was sure that he'd destroyed Moriarty's criminal network. Had it all been for nothing? What game was the bastard playing?

Moriarty's voice interrupted his reverie. “No, thank you. I'd like my boarding pass, though. I'm checking out the day after tomorrow.”

“Very good, Mr. Crane. May I have your flight information? I'll enter it into the computer now and it will automatically be taken care of.”

Sherlock froze. _He's leaving tomorrow!_

_He waited...like a spider sitting in its web...patiently, for enough time to pass so that everyone would forget him. Now he'll simply leave the country and resume his criminal activities in a new location – and no one will ever know or suspect!_

Moriarty pulled out his mobile. “British Airways, Flight BA602. Leaving at 9:40am for JFK.”

“I've always wanted to visit New York,” the concierge said wistfully.

_Laying it on thick,_ Sherlock thought. _She wants a tip badly._

Moriarty laughed, “My dear girl, you simply must! It's truly the city that never sleeps.” He gave her a cheeky wink.

She giggled. “Anyway, stop by after ten tomorrow. We'll have your boarding pass all printed out. That way you can avoid the dreadful lines at Heathrow.”

“Thank you, Joan. You've made this business trip seem more like a vacation. Please accept this as a token of my appreciation.” Bills changed hands.

“Oh, thank _you,_ Mr. Crane. That was very generous of you,” gushed the concierge.

_Must have given her a big tip,_ thought Sherlock as he finished saving Moriarty's flight information. _Business traveller indeed. He must have been using all this time to set up a network in America._

Sherlock quickly rose and ducked into the lavatory, holding the door open a crack so he could see Moriarty round the corner and ring for the lift.

A man standing at the urinal looked at him, puzzled.

“Hello,” Sherlock said dryly. “Prostate troubles, is it?”

Once Moriarty was safely in the lift, Sherlock left the hotel as easily as he'd entered it. No one gave him a second look. He instructed the doorman to hail him a cab and tipped him lavishly.

“Where to, mate?” asked the driver.

“St. Bart's,” Sherlock replied easily. “Take the fast way. I'm not a tourist and I'll know if you don't.” He smirked.

He sat back and closed his eyes, playing back the conversation between Moriarty and the concierge on his mind-recorder. The accent was all wrong. American. Moriarty had an Irish brogue.

_Clever, cheeky bastard, he_ thought, _but not clever enough. I will do whatever it takes, even if he takes me to hell with him this time._

The game was on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to put up the next chapter!

 

Molly Hooper-Lestrade sat at her desk in the St. Bart's Hospital Morgue, trying to concentrate on the work schedule for the upcoming week. Since being promoted to Head Pathologist, it was one of Molly's duties to prepare the work schedule. The morgue was always kept colder than the rest of the hospital, and Molly shivered as she pulled her lab coat tighter around her body. She picked up the mug of hot Earl Grey tea and let the steam warm her face before taking a sip. It was just as she liked it. Hot, but not so hot that it would burn her tongue. She had added a bit of cream and one packet of sugar. Molly opened her bottom desk drawer and removed a white bakery bag. Inside was a chocolate cake doughnut, covered with dark chocolate ganache and multicoloured candy sprinkles. Molly licked her lips in anticipation of the first bite of that chocolatey goodness. 

 

Suddenly, the buzzer signalling that there was a visitor to the morgue sounded. Molly hastily put the doughnut back in her bag, took another sip of tea and went to see who it was. As she neared the door, she heard someone knocking impatiently and calling her name. She immediately recognized the shadow of the person on the other side of the frosted glass door. 

 

“Molly, I need to talk with you, NOW!”, came Sherlock Holmes' deep baritone voice from the other side of the door. 

 

Molly sighed again, unlocked the door and allowed the tall detective to pass her into the morgue waiting room. 

 

“Why didn't you use your key or just pick the lock?” demanded Molly, hands on hips. 

 

Sherlock whirled around to confront her. “I hadn't planned on coming in today; and the last time I picked the lock, Collins was on duty and had me escorted out. You really need to email me a copy of your schedule, Molly. I hate all these days off you've been taking....”

 

“They are called _weekends_ , Sherlock,” replied Molly testily. “Greg and I like to spend as much time together as possible.” 

 

Sherlock ignored her response and swept into her office. He began to pace back and forth. Molly noted that he looked perplexed. Then she stretched and yawned. Even though she had had a good night's sleep, Molly wished Sherlock would leave so she could put her head down on her desk and take a nap. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped his pacing and pulled a tissue from her tissue box and handed it to her.

 

“You have chocolate icing on your index and fore fingers,” he pointed out. “You risk contaminating specimens with soiled fingers.”

 

Molly stared down at her right hand and wiped the traces of icing off. She decided not to let Sherlock bait her this time.

 

He picked up the schedule from her desk and looked it over.

 

“Perhaps you could work more than two nights? I find I enjoy the solitude...”

 

Molly snatched the paper out of Sherlock's hand and slapped it face down on her desk. 

 

“Would you like a cup of.....”

 

“NO!”

 

“What is wrong, Sherlock? You seem....upset?” Molly was never sure what to make of the handsome detective's ever-changing moods. She twisted her ponytail as she waited for his response. 

 

Sherlock ran his hands through his thick, black curls and looked at her. His ice blue eyes looked haunted. Molly recalled that it wasn't that long ago that she had fancied him. Sherlock had been able to coax any information or favour he needed from Molly with little to no effort. However, time had passed and things were different now. 

 

He took a deep breath and collected his thoughts before continuing to speak. “Today... I saw James Moriarty.”

 

Molly was taking sip of her tea and snorted, tea spewing out of her mouth and nose. “That's impossible, Sherlock!,” she exclaimed. “James Moriarty died the day you jumped off St. Bart's roof. He shot himself in the mouth right in front of you, remember?” Molly was truly flabbergasted at Sherlock's proclamation. She stared at him in disbelief as she blotted her mouth with a napkin. 

 

Sherlock shook his head. He was getting frustrated and started to pace again.

 

“Molly, listen... to... me. Carefully. Today when I was in the bank, making a deposit for John and Mary, I saw James Moriarty. I was convinced that it could not be possible, but there he was. I followed him to a coffee shop for a closer look, and....”

 

“Absolutely impossible!”, Molly interrupted impatiently. “No one can survive a gunshot wound like that, Sherlock. Half of his head had to be missing. He was dead.”

 

Sherlock took out his mobile and showed Molly the photograph he had taken in Starbucks. Unfortunately, it didn't come out very well due to the bright lighting in the store.

 

“Do you recognize this man?” he demanded.

 

Molly took a look and slid the mobile across the desk back to him. “The man certainly resembles Moriarty; but I'm telling you, Sherlock, the man is dead as could be.”

 

Sherlock walked over to her and grabbed her by the upper arms. His eyes bored into hers.

 

“Did you actually view the body, Molly?”

  
“How could I? I was busy trying to revive you and switch bodies! Daniel did the autopsy on Moriarty. If he were alive, don't you think Daniel would've noticed it when he made the first incision?,” Molly replied sarcastically.

 

“Not necessarily,” sighed Sherlock, “He only possesses an IQ of...”

 

Molly pulled away from Sherlock's grasp and plopped down in her chair. She was trying not to completely lose her temper. She had never seen Sherlock so rattled. 

 

“Sherlock, I don't know what you're thinking; but there is no way James Moriarty could be alive.” She softened her voice, “It's been a long time since you saw him...”

 

Sherlock whirled around and banged his fist on her desk, causing her to jump. 

 

“I will never, ever forget that face, Molly. It is saved on my hard drive for eternity,” he said while pointing to his left temple. 

 

“I'm sure you saw a man who greatly resembled Moriarty, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, trying to maintain some sort of self control.

 

“May I see the autopsy report?”

 

“Of course.” Molly found that sometimes it was best to humour him. 

 

Molly got up and went into the filing room, Sherlock on her heels. She opened the cabinet devoted to closed files and rummaged through the folders until she came to the M's. She paused and frowned. Then she repeated flipping through the folders. 

 

“That's odd,” she mumbled. Molly stood there and scratched her head. “The file folder for James Moriarty seems to be missing.”

 

Sherlock looked at her. His eyes bored into her, making her stutter.

 

“I-I-I don't know how this could...could...have happened.”

 

Sherlock waved her off dismissively and returned to her office. Molly slammed the file drawer shut and followed him before he could get his hands on her schedule. To her relief, he had retrieved his black leather gloves out of his pocket and had begun to pull them on his long-fingered hands. 

 

“You really need to fire that file clerk, Molly,” said Sherlock. “She is too preoccupied with the state of her artificial nails and reading the tabloids while you're doing autopsies.”

 

“Thank you for your input, Sherlock,” said Molly sarcastically. “The report was obviously misfiled, which won't do. I'll have to have a talk with Janice,” she added in a more serious tone. Molly hated when Sherlock knew things that she didn't know about her staff. 

 

“I'm sure your husband will have a copy of the report.” Sherlock looked at Molly, who had taken the doughnut back out of the bag. He wagged an index finger at her. “You may want to start eating healthier, Molly. I suggest you consider adding a prenatal vitamin to your diet. Doughnuts are not terribly nutritious for a developing fetus.”

 

Molly gasped and slammed the bag on her desk angrily. “Sherlock, there is no way I could be pregnant! Greg can't father children. His sperm count is practically non-existent. You know that!” Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “It would take a miracle!,” she sobbed. “You always say such mean things to me – you know how much I would love to have a baby!”

 

Sherlock crossed the room and looked her over as if he could see right through her. How she hated when he did that. Then his facial features softened. He handed her a fresh tissue. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Her eye make-up was going to need touching up. This time when he addressed her, he spoke softly.

 

He removed one of his gloves and gently reached out to stroke her cheek. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “You are a doctor, Molly. How can you not know? You exhibit all the signs. You are uncharacteristically short-tempered and cry easily, which is caused by fluctuating hormone levels. Your breasts have increased in size; and you have nipple tenderness, which is apparent by the way you keep trying to adjust the cups of your bra to take the pressure off them. You have yawned five times since I have been here. Last week you fell asleep at the microscope from intense fatigue, which is common in the first trimester. I also noticed that you had to use the loo more often than usual, which is caused by the uterus pressing on your bladder. Your face has also broken out – again, caused by the hormones; and your face is rounder.”

 

Molly's mouth dropped open as she considered what the detective was telling her. Sherlock smiled slightly.

 

“When was you last menses? Certainly you keep track of it? That would be the first clue.”

 

“My periods have never been very regular, so I never really kept track of them,” said Molly as she looked at the calendar and began to frantically count off the days in her head. “I can't believe....the fertility doctor said..”

 

“Low sperm count, yes. Impossible for him to impregnate you, no. If you take a pregnancy test, you'll find that I'm correct.” Sherlock took a step closer to Molly and took her in his arms. 

 

“Congratulations on your miracle, Mrs. Lestrade. You will make a fine mother,” Sherlock said softly as he gently kissed Molly on the forehead. “I hope this doesn't mean I'll be losing my pathologist.”

 

He released her and left the morgue. 

 

 

 

 

Molly sat at her desk for several minutes drumming her fingers and trying to digest all that Sherlock had told her. She then locked up the morgue and went upstairs to the hospital pharmacy. She soon returned with a pregnancy test kit. While she waited for the results, Molly pulled her mobile out of her pocket. She quickly sent a text message to her husband, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. 

 

_You're about to have company of the most distressing kind. If you thought he was daft before, wait until you hear what he has to say this time! Make sure Sally Donovan isn't around. Love u! Molly xxoo_

 

Molly heard the timer go off and looked at the test strip. It had turned pink, highlighting the word “Pregnant”. A huge smile spread across her face, and she tossed the doughnut into the waste basket. She picked up her mobile and sent her husband another text. This time her hands were shaking, as tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. 

 

 _P.S._ _Please try and get home early tonight. We need to discuss baby names. :-)_

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to try and update this story on a more regular basis. Thank you to all for leaving kudos on this story! We appreciate any feedback!

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sat at his desk, staring out the window at the moderate snowfall. The side walks had a light coating, but the streets were still wet. He picked up his cellphone and stared at the text messages from his wife for the third time. He felt light-headed... as if he were in a dream. Finally, he punched in the direct dial number to the morgue at St. Bart's.

“Morgue, Dr. Hooper-Lestrade speaking,” answered Molly.

“Are you sure?,” asked Greg in a hoarse voice.

“Oh my God, yes!” replied Molly brightly. “I just took a pregnancy test, and passed with flying colours,” she laughed. “ I'm so happy, Greg. I can barely concentrate on my work.”

“That's wonderful, Molly. I've never had such good news.” Greg smiled and felt his emotions welling up inside. He cleared his throat. “I'll see you tonight – I can't talk right now.” The tears were threatening to spill over. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too, Greg.” Molly sounded like she was about to cry.

He quickly hung up the phone and went to the men's room to compose himself.

 

 

 

Sherlock Holmes arrived at The New Scotland Yard, just as Sergeant Sally Donovan was returning from her lunch break. Sally watched the tall, lanky detective stride across the room towards her as he brushed snow flakes from his shoulders. She put her handbag in her desk drawer and began to check her emails, hoping that Sherlock would just ignore her. It was not to be.

“Well, Sergeant Donovan,” began Sherlock in his deep, rich baritone. “I know how very busy you are not; so I'll be brief. Is Lestrade in?” He leaned over her desk to look at the receipts spread out in front of her. “I doubt you can claim a hotel bill for this afternoon on your expense form. I suggest you and Anderson just split it.”

“What do you want, Freak?,” asked Sally frostily as she turned the papers over to prevent Sherlock from further examining them. “He's in the loo.”

“Never mind then. Save the sweet talk for Anderson,” said Sherlock in a dismissive tone. “A pleasure as always, Sally.” He turned on his heel and headed towards the men's room.

“Piss off!” Sally called after him. 

 

 

Sherlock entered the men's room to find it empty. He bent down and looked under the stalls. He heard an unmistakable sniffle and spotted Greg Lestrade's feet in the last one.

“Lestrade, I need to have access to James Moriarty's file.”

“Christ, Sherlock, can't a man have some privacy?” exclaimed Greg in exasperation. Sherlock heard the hoarseness in his voice.

“It is very important that I see the file immediately,” continued Sherlock.

The toilet flushed, and Greg came out. He studied Sherlock in the mirror as he washed his hands.

“There's no need to wash your hands. You were experiencing an emotional overload and flushed the toilet to distract me,” stated Sherlock. “Your eyes are red, and your voice is still raspy. They were tears of joy rather than sorrow,” he said knowingly.

Lestrade looked at his own reflection in the mirror. He splashed some cool water on his face and smoothed his silver hair with a wet palm.

“I just had the most marvellous news from Molly,” Greg began with a smile as he dried his hands, “and it shook me to the core”.

“Yes. I know. I suggested the pregnancy test. Congratulations, Lestrade.”

Greg shook his head and laughed. He knew he should not be surprised by this. “Thank you, Sherlock. We had given up all hope. It really is a miracle.”

“Actually, it was simply a well-timed ejaculation,” smirked Sherlock. “Now, may I see the file?”

 

 

Greg Lestrade had learned that the sooner he gave Sherlock Holmes what he wanted, the better it would be for him. Sherlock was a brilliant, consulting detective; and his assistance was indispensable to the department. However, his arrogance and abruptness tried Greg's patience more often than not. Sherlock followed Greg back to his office. Once inside, Greg closed the door. Everyone in the inner office could still see them through the glass window, but at least their conversation would not be overheard. Greg sat down behind his desk and offered the guest chair to Sherlock, who remained standing.

“O.K., Sherlock, why the sudden fascination with Moriarty's file? The case has been closed for four years.”

Sherlock rubbed his chin and walked over to look out the window at the falling snow. He slowly turned to face the detective inspector.

“I saw James Moriarty this morning at a bank. I followed and observed him. There is no doubt in my mind that it's him, Lestrade, ” said Sherlock in a low voice. He then proceeded to outline what had transpired in great detail.

Greg sat back in his chair with his fingers steepled under his chin and listened attentively to what the detective had to say. While he found the story intriguing; common sense prevailed, and he was forced to dismiss it. It simply wasn't possible. He licked his lips and tried to let the young man before him down as gently as he could.

“Sherlock, I went up to that roof. I saw the body with my own eyes. Blood and gore everywhere. There isn't a chance that he could have survived. The medics checked him at the crime scene. There were no vital signs whatsoever. Hell, he had blown away most of his face.”

Sherlock turned to look out the window again and sighed. “If you recall, I was able to fake my own death quite convincingly. You saw my body and believed I was dead, yet I was n't. I need to see the autopsy report.”

“Sherlock....”

Sherlock took out his mobile and waved it in front of Greg. “This is not the best quality photo, but I believe you will recognize one James Moriarty.”

Greg studied the photo and shook his head. “I can't tell from this photo. The light is washing out the face. Sorry, but I still trust my own eyes; and that was Moriarty on the roof of St. Barts.”

“I will not leave this office until I have seen the file, Lestrade.”

Greg shrugged.

“Sure, Sherlock, if that is what it will take to convince you, then fine.”

Lestrade rose from his desk and went out to the inner office. Sherlock stood at the window and watched the snow. He kept checking his watch. Finally, Greg returned to the office, carrying a thick file folder. Sherlock walked over to the desk and watched as Greg leafed through the contents and finally pulled out a report cover.

“Here it is. The official autopsy report on James L. Moriarty,” said Greg as he handed the report to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the folder and read from the report aloud, “The report was prepared and filed by Dr. Daniel Johnston, Pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital Morgue. It goes on to state that there was no autopsy performed on the deceased due to the wishes of the immediate family. A solictor named Geoffrey Saunders arrived within the hour after Moriarty's body was taken to the morgue. Geoffrey Saunders had been the solicitor for the Moriarty family for many years and knew the deceased since childhood. Therefore, he was able to identify and lay claim to the body on behalf of the Moriarty family. The body was immediately taken to McDonald and Bell Mortuary in Dublin for cremation.”

Sherlock sank into the guest chair, closed the folder and pushed it across the desk to Lestrade. “Did you know this?” asked Sherlock.

“No,” admitted Greg. “I was upset and preoccupied with your leaping off the rooftop, that I never even thought to actually read the report. I had seen Moriarty. That was enough for me, and it should be for you. The monster is dead. Let him rot in hell.”

Sherlock took back the report and removed his mobile from his pocket. He punched in the phone number of the mortuary and waited. In the interim, Sally Donovan had called Greg outside to sign off on an arrest warrant. When he got back, Sherlock was buttoning his coat and tying his scarf.

“Find out what you needed then?” asked Greg.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. “I spoke with the Mortuary Director in Dublin. They never received the body of James Moriarty.”

Greg Lestrade watched the retreating back of Sherlock Holmes leave his office. He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone to call St. Bart's morgue.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be taking a little break due to the holidays, will try and post upcoming chapters on a more regular schedule.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Christmas chapter, as the timeline is set in the winter. Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes unlocked the front door of 221B Baker Street and pushed it open. He shook the snow out of his hair and stomped his feet on the mat that Mrs. Hudson had put in the hallway to protect the wooden floor from the snow. Sherlock had opted to take the tube home when it became apparent that he was not going to find an empty cab. He climbed the stairs to his second floor flat and noted that the carpet runner was damp in spots. As he neared the top of the stairs, he spied light coming from under the door. Sherlock had turned off the lights when he had gone out that morning. He was sure of it. He paused outside the door and listened carefully. There was no discernible sound coming from the flat. As he turned the key in the lock, his nose picked up a slight whiff of Burberry cologne.

 

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?,” asked Sherlock in a petulant tone as he entered the flat to find his brother sitting in John's chair by the fireplace, sipping a cup of tea.

 

“I was wondering what took you so long,” Mycroft replied calmly. “I was about to send Anthea to collect you.”

 

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the rack by the door to dry. Next he took off his shoes. Luckily, his socks remained dry.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, can you also get my brother a cup of tea?” called out Mycroft towards the kitchen, which opened up off of the living room. He paused and took another sip. “She does brew a more than adequate cup of tea...”

 

“Mycroft Holmes, didn't I just tell you that I'm not your brother's housekeeper, I'm his landlady,” reminded Mrs. Hudson as she came out of the kitchen with a heaping plate of biscuits that she put on the table in front of Mycroft. “You just happened to catch me putting some supper for Sherlock in the fridge.” She smiled when she saw Sherlock. “Oh, Sherlock. I made some lamb stew and thought you might like a bowl tonight for supper. It keeps your insides nice and warm.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock. “My brother seems to have forgotten how to boil water. We can manage from here,” he added dismissively.

 

Mycroft leaned forward and helped himself to a hazelnut-studded biscuit, enrobed in silky dark chocolate. He chewed slowly and sighed contentedly as the rich chocolate melted in his mouth.

 

“Were biscuits always on your diet, Mycroft?,” snickered Sherlock in a sarcastic tone.

 

“Have a nice chat, boys,” said Mrs. Hudson as she quickly left the flat. “Sherlock, don't forget we have Roger Whitehouse coming over at four to discuss the plans for Dr. Watson's renovations.”

 

Sherlock nodded affirmatively at Mrs. Hudson and turned his attention to Mycroft, who was about to take a round chocolate biscuit, covered in toasted coconut. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, who sat back with lips settled into a thin line.

 

“I suppose you are incapable of making your own tea?”

 

“She was already in the kitchen, and I really don't think she minds...”

 

“ _I_ mind,” growled Sherlock. “Now, why is it you're here?”

 

Mycroft sipped his tea thoughtfully and sniffed. “Flowery Darjeeling. Very nice bouquet.”

 

Sherlock went into the kitchen and poured some tea into a mug. He added two spoons of sugar and some of the hot milk that Mrs. Hudson had steamed. When it was to his liking, he returned to the living room and sat in his armchair opposite Mycroft, who had taken the biscuit.

 

“You didn't come here to discuss my selection of tea,” said Sherlock.

 

Mycroft snorted. “No one can fool you, Sherlock,” he mocked. He peered at Sherlock over the rim of his teacup. “I'm here to find out why you are trying to resurrect James Moriarty from the dead.”

 

Sherlock selected a vanilla and chocolate sandwich biscuit from the plate and took a bite. He hadn't eaten all day and was suddenly hungry. He stared at Mycroft as he chewed and shallowed. Mycroft met his stare and held it.

 

“Did you intercept Moriarty's body en route to the mortuary?”

 

“And what if I did?”

 

“I saw Moriarty today.”

 

“Impossible.”

 

“So I've been told by everyone I have spoken with today.”

 

“The family refused an autopsy for religious reasons, but I needed to be sure it was him. After all, Brother, you were able to successfully convince the world you were dead.”

 

“And was it him?”

 

Mycroft thoughtfully dunked the biscuit in his tea and bit off the softened end. He then dunked the remaining half and ate it. He finished his tea. The chocolate had melted into the tea, giving it a pleasant flavour.

 

“I can't say for certain.”

 

Sherlock banged the mug down on the table. “Stop playing games, Mycroft!”

 

The elder Holmes put down his teacup as if he had all the time in the world and carefully patted his lips with a napkin.

 

“The DNA results were inconclusive. We had searched high and low and couldn't locate any medical records that could be deemed 100 percent reliable. It would appear that James Moriarty took great care not to leave behind any kind of concrete information that we could use to make comparisons in a situation such as this.”

 

“Mycroft, it was him,” insisted Sherlock quietly. “There is no other explanation. Somehow he was also able to fake his death. James Moriarty is back among the living.”

 

Once again, Sherlock displayed the photo taken with his camera phone.

 

“Can you download this onto your computer and try to sharpen the facial features?,” asked Mycroft.

 

Sherlock went to his laptop and downloaded the photo off his camera phone. Mycroft stood behind Sherlock and watched as he tinkered with the photoshop program. After several minutes, Sherlock had done the best he could with improving the image. He got up so Mycroft could have a better look.

 

Mycroft sat in the chair and carefully examined the photograph. The man could certainly pass for Moriarty. He wished the image was just a bit sharper. He tried to adjust the contrast and brightness but to no avail. Could his brother be right? Could Moriarty have cheated death?

 

Mycroft rose and returned to John's chair. He crossed his legs and settled back in the chair before addressing his younger brother. “Tell me what happened,” he said evenly.

 

“You already know,” scoffed Sherlock. “You have spies everywhere.”

 

“I want to hear it from you. Every detail. Leave out nothing.”

 

When Sherlock had finished relaying the day's events to Mycroft, he paused to take a sip of the now cold tea. The fire had burned down considerably. He got up and tossed another log on it. He scattered the embers with the poker.

 

“What do you propose to do about it, Sherlock?,” asked Mycroft.

 

“I am going to be on that flight to New York tomorrow,” replied Sherlock. “I will need a first class plane ticket in the name of Alistair Powell along with a fake ID, credit cards and some cash. Once I 'm there, I plan to watch and learn all I can about James Moriarty's new life in America and his criminal web. Then I will show him just how on the side of the angels I am not. I will make sure that this time the spider is crushed and returned to hell where he belongs.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted after New Years. Happy Holidays to all!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also posting update announcements on my tumblr: mariwhether.tumblr.com

 

Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson stood in the entrance hall of 222 Baker Street with Roger Whitehouse from the Tewesbury Construction Company. They had spent over two hours walking through the house and reviewing the renovation plans that John and Mary had left in painstaking detail. Mr. Whitehouse assured Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson that all the materials that had been ordered had arrived and work was ready to begin the following day. 

“Mr. Whitehouse, I regret that I won't be here to supervise the renovations personally,” began Sherlock. “I have some urgent business to attend to in the States, so Mrs. Hudson will be in charge.” He rolled up the plans and handed them to the construction foreman. “Please rest assured that just because I 'm not present does not give you license to cut corners in any way, shape or form.” 

Mr. Whitehouse looked at Mrs. Hudson, who kept her eyes on Sherlock. He was wondering what he had gotten himself into. The doctor and his wife had been so amiable and easy-going. They were prudent with their money and open-minded to suggestions on how to cut costs. He had not expected to be left with this difficult man to answer to. 

“ I expect these plans to be adhered to exactly. If the mouldings are specified to be 2 centimetres thick, then that is what I expect to see. The kitchen is to be painted with Devonshire Spearmint#22. I don't expect to find another brand has been used. The patterns on the wallpaper seams should match exactly, and all the doors should be hung so that they are straight and don't catch on the floor.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes; but I don't care for your tone. You're insinuating that my company is....” 

“Yes, I am. Every contractor I have ever hired has always tried to cut corners in order to maximize their profit; so don't waste your breath on promises and don't attempt to fool me. I'll know if the job has been rushed or inferior materials are substituted...” 

Roger Whitehouse's face turned crimson. “Wait just a minute, Mr. Holmes. My references speak for themselves. I have never had any problems with clients!” 

“Perhaps you are sincere, Mr. Whitehouse; and perhaps you haven't been caught at it yet. However, I'm putting you on notice that upon my return to London, I will conduct an inspection ...a very thorough inspection. The Watsons have asked me to make sure their plans are carried out, and I intend to do just that. If your men succeed in satisfying me, then you will be compensated handsomely in addition to your fee. If you don't, your men will return until the job is done properly,” said Sherlock haughtily. “I don't care how many trips they may have to make here or if it puts you behind on other jobs,” he added. 

“This is ridiculous! I have never been so insulted!” Mr. Whitehouse spat. 

Mr. Whitehouse looked at Mrs. Hudson for support. He was regretting the day John and Mary Watson had come to his showroom. 

The older woman smiled and said, “Listen to what he says, Mr. Whitehouse. The last time I had the hallway wallpapered, the workers had to come back five...was it five times, Sherlock?” 

“Eight.” 

“See, eight times they came back until it was perfect,” said Mrs. Hudson with a sad shake of her head. “The poor dears were just besides themselves. They wanted to just up and leave; but Sherlock wasn't having any of it - were you, Sherlock?” 

“I encouraged them to complete the job to our satisfaction, or I would've been forced to write a very biased review of their ineptness in Dr. Watson's blog and on that popular online referral website.” 

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and addressed Sherlock. “Do you recall the name of the man who developed the twitch in his eye? Was he the one who came back five times?” 

“Yes. Mr. Horton. The floor re-finisher. Your lounge floor had to be re-sanded five times because the morons couldn't figure out how to operate their own equipment,” said Sherlock with a bitter laugh. 

Mrs. Hudson laughed and clapped her hands. “It was a good thing you didn't have a case that day, Sherlock. Dr. Watson was sure they were going to wind up sanding right through the floor.” 

“Does anything meet your high standards, Mr. Holmes?,” asked Mr. Whitehouse with a sneer. He could feel the acid churning in his stomach. This was just what he didn't need. 

“You know, that nice man who installed the front door didn't have to come back at all,” Mrs. Hudson added encouragingly. 

“Correct.” Sherlock smiled thinly at Mr. Whitehouse. “That was because I was able to be there to personally supervise the entire day.” 

Mr. Whitehouse cursed the day he met the Watsons, but was thankful for whatever business had called Sherlock Holmes across the ocean. 

 

 

Sherlock spent the remainder of the day shopping for his trip to America. Once he returned to Baker Street, Mycroft sent his assistant, Anthea, over to deliver the first-class plane ticket, fake ID and credit cards that Sherlock had requested in the alias of Alistair Powell. All he had to do was insert a new passport photo, which he would take care of later. A new mobile with unlimited overseas calling and texting capabilities had been included. 

 

Sherlock was concerned about the integrity of the contractor, and decided that Mrs. Hudson should take a photo of the day's work to send him each evening. He went downstairs and showed her how to use the camera on her mobile. Then he gave her instructions on how to send him the photos. This way he could make sure everything was being done correctly in case she missed some little detail. It would also save time in case the work had to be done over again. He didn't wish to disappoint John and Mary upon their return from their honeymoon. He left an extra copy of the plans for the contractors with Mrs. Hudson, along with his new mobile number. 

Once back upstairs, Sherlock made a quick phone call to his parents to let them know he was taking an impromptu “holiday” in the States and would see them as soon as he returned, as it had been almost a month since he had last been to their house in Gloucestershire for Sunday lunch. 

With most of the preparations complete, there was only one last detail to take care of. Sherlock Holmes pondered his appearance as he ate the lamb stew Mrs. Hudson had left him. The stew was rich and thick with chunks of potatoes, carrots and pearl onions. The brown gravy had a hint of wine in it and was perfumed with bay leaf and rosemary. Afterwards, he prepared a pot of Arabica coffee and heated a currant scone. He topped the scone with clotted cream and raspberry preserves. He went into the living room and sat in his chair while he ate the scone. Now, he wouldn't have to bother with eating substantially again for a couple of days . 

He decided that he couldn't board the plane without a disguise, as Moriarty would certainly recognize him. Sherlock had taken great precautions to keep out of the consulting criminal's sight; but that might prove to be too dicey on a plane for several hours. Given his height, pale complexion and black curly hair, Sherlock easily stood out in a crowd. At times he wished he were short and nondescript like John, so he could easily fade into the background. Sherlock picked up his violin and played a Bach tune while considering his options. 

 

 

The snow had finally stopped. The forecast was for the temperature to rise overnight, melting whatever snow had fallen. Mrs. Hudson's friend, Shirley Turner, who lived next door, had come over to spend the evening. They had the lamb stew and a sticky toffee pudding that Shirley had made. Mrs. Hudson had relayed the day's events, including the conversation with Mr. Whitehouse, as they played a game of mah-jong. 

“I wouldn't want to be in that contractor's shoes for all the money in the world,” exclaimed Shirley. “You know, that tenant of yours is just plain crackers,” she added as she studied her tiles. “At least the doctor was normal...too bad he was the one who got married and moved out.” 

“Oh, Sherlock's got a funny old head for sure!,” agreed Mrs. Hudson, “But he can be such a dear when he wants to be. He's always watching out for me. Why just last month he saved my life...” 

“Maybe so, but he's also one of the rudest people I've ever met,” countered Shirley. “Why just last week, he had a run-in with Judy Simmons in the butcher shop...over a suckling pig! She said he pulled it out of her hands, claiming he needed it for an experiment. Judy wasn't about to back down, but neither was he. Finally, he offered to drain the blood and send the carcass over to her. She gave up and went with the veal roast. What in God's name does he do up there all day?” 

“Sherlock is very smart, Shirley. He's got all sorts of fancy degrees from University. Why he could be a famous doctor or research scientist! There must be four or five experiments going on up there. I keep telling him that he should go work at St. Bart's or teach at Oxford; but he said that would be boring. He likes being a consulting detective,” said Mrs. Hudson. “He says he enjoys a good puzzle. I have a feeling he makes more money doing that, too.” 

“From what I've heard, his family is posh. He doesn't need to work. I wonder if they are as loony as he is, ” mused Shirley as she rearranged her tiles. 

“Oh, Shirley Turner, now you stop that! I've met his family, and they aren't posh. They are lovely...ordinary people. Now, his brother, Mycroft, is a bit strange; but I think he just needs to find a good woman to set him straight. Sherlock is many things, but he isn't loony by any means,” laughed Mrs. Hudson. “He's as sane as you and I.  He's just a bit eccentric is all.” 

 

 

After several games of mah-jong, which she lost, Mrs. Hudson bid goodnight to Shirley. As she locked the front door, Sherlock shouted down to her. 

“Mrs. Hudson! I need your assistance!” 

“What is it Sherlock?” 

“I need you now!” Sherlock bellowed. 

Mrs. Hudson quickly climbed the stairs to Sherlock's flat. The door had been left open. 

“Sherlock?” she called looking around the empty lounge, feeling anxious. “Are you all right?” All kinds of unsavoury possibilities were going through her mind. 

Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes burst out of the kitchen with a horrified expression on his pale face. His hands were covered with bright red blood and more blood was dripping down his face from under the shower cap he was wearing. 

Mrs. Hudson screamed and fell to the floor in a faint.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's been a long time since I've posted a chapter!

    “Oh, my God in heaven, Sherlock!,” cried Mrs. Hudson.  “You gave me such a scare!  I thought you had cut yourself or one of those ghastly experiments of yours went wrong….”  
  
    “No need to worry, Mrs. Hudson.  As I said, it's only hair dye,” said Sherlock, as he adjusted the pillow behind her head. He had carried Mrs. Hudson to the couch after she had fainted.  “Drink this,” he commanded as he handed her a cup of the coffee he had made.    
  
    Mrs. Hudson studied Sherlock over the rim of the cup as she drank the strong, black brew. “Is that the colour you wanted, Love?”  His hair and eyebrows were bright blood-red.  “I don't know why you would want to colour your beautiful hair, Sherlock.”  She shook her head. “You are never going to attract a nice young bird looking like you stepped out of a horror movie!”  
  
    Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “I simply wanted a change, Mrs. Hudson, that’s.  It was supposed to be ginger, but somehow I wound up looking like Little Orphan Annie.”  
  
    “You must have mixed the colour wrong,” said Mrs. Hudson as she studied Sherlock's hair.  “You have to follow the formula exactly or you wind up with mistakes like this.”  
  
    Sherlock smiled his most charming smile at her.  “Mrs. Hudson, I believe you once told me that you had graduated from Cosmetology School at the top of your class before you took off for Florida and took up exotic dancing.”   He knew she would not refuse him.  
  
    “Oh, yes.  That was a long time ago...1967.   I worked in quite a posh salon on Carnaby Street back when the mod look was in style,” she clapped her hands together with delight and laughed.  “That’s where I met my husband.  He came in for a haircut, and I wasn’t busy so I took care of him...”  
  
    Sherlock made an attempt to get Mrs. Hudson back on track. “The colour, Mrs. Hudson.  What do we do to correct the colour?”  
  
    “ Those were fun styles to do back then...all the teasing and back combing...the hairspray.  You really felt as if you were creating a work of art!  Now, all it takes is a good cut and a blow dryer.”   
  
    “Do you think you could correct this colour before I have to leave?,” asked Sherlock a bit impatiently.  “I’m afraid my continued tinkering will only make it even more garish.  I was trying for a medium ginger.”     
  
    Mrs. Hudson smiled, “Leave it to me, Dear. I’m sure I can get the result you want.”  
  
    “Of course, my eyebrows would have to match.”  
  
    “Never you mind.  I'll have you all ginger in no time. Let me go downstairs and get my hairdressing case.  This is going to be such fun!”  
  
    “Bring you scissors, too,” Sherlock called out after her.  “I believe I should be needing a cut.”  
  
      
  
  
    Sherlock didn't sleep that night.  After Mrs. Hudson left his flat, he took a shower and packed his bags.  Then he donned black jeans, a heather grey turtle neck sweater and black leather jacket. Mrs. Hudson had cut his hair shorter; so that it touched the back of his collar and covered most of his ears.  The style reminded him of the Beatles.   All he had to do was finger comb his curls according to her.  Sherlock grimaced as he forced in a tiny gold hoop earring in almost closed up hold in his left ear, which was the result of a piercing experiment back in his University days.  He inserted non-prescription brown contact lenses after spending  ten minutes trying on various non-prescription glasses and deciding against them.  Next came a dental appliance that plumped his cheeks.  Sherlock laced up a new pair of black trainers and took an appraising look in the full length mirror on the back of his bedroom door.  He was quite satisfied with his appearance.  Sherlock Holmes had successfully transformed himself into Alistair Powell.   It was time to hail a cab and head out to the airport.   
  
    The drive to Heathrow was uneventful that early in the morning.  As predicted by the weather forecasters, the temperature had risen overnight; and the snow had melted, leaving wet streets.   Sherlock opted to check his hold bag curb side and entered the terminal, all the while looking around for Moriarty.  He proceeded to the security area and got on the queue with his hand bag.  The security agents were taking their time screening the passengers.  When Sherlock's turn had come, one of the agents waved him over to the side.    
  
    “Why am I being singled out?” Sherlock inquired.  “Are you not supposed to offer me the option of the body scanner or a hand search?”  
  
    “The scanner is down, sir; so you have been randomly selected for a body pat down.”  
  
    “Oh, jolly good!  My lucky day,” exclaimed Sherlock sarcastically.  “Look at me! Do you really think I fit the profile for a terrorist?” he demanded peevishly.    
  
    “I’m just following orders, sir,” said the agent.  “Now, please follow me to the holding area.”  
  
    “Perhaps you should have randomly selected the second man in the third queue,” commented Sherlock as he followed the agent.  “Take a look at him... mid-30's, obviously a chef by the small nicks and cuts on his hands – not to mention the scars from burns that could only be acquired in a kitchen.  Slightly overweight due to all the tasting he does to make sure what he cooks will please the palate....he does more tasting than most.... as you will note by the nicotine stains on his hands and nails that he is a smoker and it is a well-documented fact that a smoker’s taste buds are duller than a non-smoker’s.  This causes him to over salt at times to compensate for his diminished taste.”  
  
    “And you want me to screen him for being a smoker, Mate?”  asked the baffled agent, scratching his head.  
  
    “Of course not!” scoffed Sherlock. “Notice how he shifts  restlessly  from one foot to the other?  He is hoping to appear nonchalant, but its not working.  If any of your half-wit co-workers had a decent sense of smell, they would have picked up on the faint odour of unpasturized stilton cheese in his hand bag.  He will without a doubt try and pass it off as pasteurised; but if you check, you will find that it is unpasturized - thus illegal to leave the country with.”    
  
    “How in bloody hell would the likes of you know unpasturized from pasteurised?,” asked the agent with a scowl.  
  
    “It’s all in the smell,” replied Sherlock haughtily.  “Though I sincerely doubt if your sense of smell is all that sensitive due to the large quantities of cocaine you have been snorting.  It’s a wonderful way to destroy the nasal mucous membranes and not one that I would recommend based on personal experience.”  
  
  
  
      
     _He was sitting at a table at the Queen's Annual Fashion Gala, watching the dancers with great envy.  He secretly loved to dance but hadn't in a long time.  That was the part of the job he hated.  He hated that he had to be so careful as to who he saw, where he went and what he said and did.  It was all about appearances. Appearances were everything when you held one of the highest positions in the Government.  Absolutely no scandals would be permitted or tolerated for that matter.  He would never had achieved the loftly position he held otherwise._  
  
 _“Would you care to ask me to dance?” came that sweet Southern-accented voice he had heard earlier in the evening while standing beside Her Majesty on the reception queue.  He looked up to see that it was the American fashion designer, Julia Michaels.  Everyone had been raving about her spring collection all evening. His stomach had felt funny as he shook her hand and basked in her warm smile.  Mycroft Holmes had not felt this way since he was at University, and he didn’t like it one bit. Emotions and feelings were things he had learned to keep tightly reigned in._  
  
 _Except now.  His mind and body were betraying him in spite of his iron self-control._  
  
 _“Yes, I would,” he replied as his heart began to beat faster as he got to his feet.  “Would you care to dance, Miss Michaels?”_  
  
 _“Please call me Julia,” she said with that huge smile, which made him feel as if he were on a roller coaster.  “And I'll call you Mycroft.  I hate formalities.”_  
  
 _Mycroft  took her arm and led her out onto the dance floor.  He made sure he held her at a respectable distance, not too close; and not too far.  It was the first time he had_ _danced at a formal public function in years.  He wondered if he would find his name linked with hers in the morning paper._  
  
 _“You have been watching me all night,” she teased.  “So, has your brother, the famous detective.  I believe you are interested in me as a woman, and he is interested in me as a specimen.”  She laughed and looked up at him. Her eyes were green.  Mycroft felt he was in danger of drowning in those eyes.  He wished Sherlock hadn't come, but the Queen had issued the invitation personally.  Sherlock had been knighted for his service to the Royal Family the prior year for stopping a possible scandal involving Irene Adler._  
  
 _“I wasn't aware of it...,” Mycroft started to say; but then realised that he had been caught.  “Please accept my apologies, Julia,” he said feeling all at once light-headed and embarrassed.  “It is difficult to ignore the most beautiful woman in the room.”  Had it been that long since he had attempted flirting? He smiled at her.  He was surprised to find that he had meant every word.  “I follow the world of high fashion rather closely, and your designs are most delightful,” he added sincerely.  Mycroft loved clothes and owned several pieces from her mens' collection.  As a matter of fact, he was wearing one of her ties that evening._  
  
 _“You are a very good dancer, Mycroft,” she said and moved a bit closer as they continued to move around the dance floor.  “I also approve of your taste in ties.  That was from my fall collection.  Perhaps you can come to my showroom, and I can design a suit for you...”_  
  
  
  
    Mycroft Holmes was awakened by the sound of his special line ringing.  That meant there was either a crisis about to affect the country or Sherlock had gotten into trouble at the airport.  He was certain it was the latter.   He sighed deeply and sat up, leaning against the headboard.  It had been so pleasant reliving the prior evening in a dream.  
      
    “Mycroft Holmes,” he answered as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, preparing himself for the worst.  
  
    “So sorry to disturb you, Mycroft,” came the voice of Edgar Graves, who was in charge of British Security and reported directly to Mycroft.  “I received a call from Heathrow concerning a young man, claiming to be your brother, Sherlock.  They faxed me copies of his papers, which show him to be …..”  
  
    “Alistair Powell,” finished Mycroft.  “Sherlock is on a special assignment for me.  What did he do to upset the boys?” he asked, fearing the response.  
  
    “Well, for starters, he outed a chef carrying unpasturized stilton, which is fine and good, except he also outed the agent for drug abuse at the same time.  The other passengers got pretty worked up over this and were taking his side,” explained Edgar.  “Then he loudly criticised an agent for searching a child's hand bag, which only contained toys and games.  He said the agent was not treating the child's possessions with the respect they deserved.  He caused quite a commotion.”  
  
    Mycroft felt a headache coming on and rubbed his temples.  
  
    “As you know, our policy states that we are to do random searches, which they pointed out to your brother.  He was having none of it and refused to submit to the body search.  He spent over ten minutes citing all sorts of laws regarding civil liberty.”  
  
    “Please do not detain him, Edgar,” instructed Mycroft.  “and extend every courtesy to him, though the word courtesy and Sherlock do not belong in the same sentence.  I can personally vouch for my brother's integrity.  He is a threat to no one.”  
  
     _But himself._  
  
    “Will do, Mycroft,” and with that the connection was broken.  
  
    Mycroft Holmes replaced the receiver and unclenched his teeth.  He picked up his mobile and began to text furiously:  
  
  
  
   **What in the hell are you doing?  MH**  
  
 **I was merely pointing out the flaws in their system.  SH**  
  
 **I know how difficult this is for you, but don't point out anything to anyone.  Please. Just get on the damned plane and conduct your business as unobtrusively as possible.  I am limited by what I can do for you once you are in the States, so keep a low profile.  MH**  
  
 **I just can't turn it on and off like a tap.  SH**  
  
 **Make every effort, Sherlock. MH**  
  
 **Are you going to ask the American designer to dinner?  She fancies you as much as you fancy her.  SH**  
  
      
  
  
    Upon leaving the security area, Sherlock went to a news stand and bought a copy of the New York Times to read on the plane.  Then he walked over to the departure gate area and surveyed the passengers who were waiting to board the plane.  There in the most remote corner of the seating area was James Moriarty.  Sherlock selected a seat on the opposite side of the area and pretended to read the paper.  Moriarty was dressed similar to Sherlock in jeans, trainers and leather jacket.  His hair appeared to be freshly washed and styled the same as the prior day.  He was sipping a cup of coffee and typing on his laptop.  No matter how much Sherlock observed, he was only able to read the obvious about the criminal.  It reminded him of the first time he had met Sherlock in the St. Bart's morgue posing as Jim from IT.  Sherlock was only able to read what Moriarty wanted him to read.   
  
     Finally, the flight was announced and boarding was to begin with first class.  Sherlock had a first-class ticket; so he was able to board and get settled in his aisle seat when the business class passengers began to enter the plane.   He quickly bent his head over his hand bag, rifling through it for a book as James Moriarty passed by his seat on his way to the business class section of the plane.  Sherlock closed his bag and stood to place it in the overhead compartment.  He glanced back at the business class section of the plane.  Moriarty was sitting in the first row with the extra legroom.  He was chatting amiably with his seat mate, as he cleaned his glasses with a tissue.  Again, Sherlock tried to read him; but could not from where he was standing.  The flight attendant asked Sherlock to take his seat as he was blocking the aisle.     
  
    The six hour flight passed uneventfully, except for Sherlock getting bored and reading his fellow passengers in his immediate vicinity.  His seat mate asked to be moved after the first hour of the flight when Sherlock finally asked him if this was only the first time he had cheated on his wife.  At least he now had an empty seat beside him; and he would not have to listen to the man blather on about his loving wife.  He pointed out to the elderly sisters opposite him that one of them was cheating at cards while the other was in the loo.  This caused them to bicker and argue for most of the flight.  Meal time was livened up by Sherlock pointing out to the flight attendant that the meals were left over from the previous flight and likely to cause dysentery if consumed.  This caused a bit of an uproar among the first class passengers, resulting in the airline promising them a partial refund.  Then Sherlock pointed out to the flight attendant that the newlyweds who were seated behind him were using the loo for sex, causing a long line to form in the aisle.  After being glared at by the newlyweds upon their return to their seats, Sherlock decided to stretch his legs and strolled into business class.  His departure was met with happy sighs from his fellow first class passengers.  The flight attendant opened a bottle of champagne to thank the passengers for putting up with such an annoying person.    
  
      Sherlock noticed that Moriarty appeared to be asleep as he walked through the business class cabin.  Then he continued into the economy class cabin.  After several minutes of walking back and forth, Sherlock returned to business class.  It was then that he found the aisle blocked by James Moriarty, who had gotten up and was heading towards him.  Sherlock ducked into one of the loos in order to avoid Moriarty.  He used the facilities and took his time washing his hands.  He carefully opened the door and saw that Moriarty had returned to his seat.  As Sherlock was about to pass Moriarty's row, the criminal mastermind stood up and stepped into the aisle, bumping into Sherlock.    
  
    “Sorry,” said Moriarty with a slight smile. He quickly stepped aside for Sherlock to pass.   
  
    Sherlock turned his head and mumbled, “Not a problem,” and kept moving.    
  
    The exchange had taken only seconds; but it felt like hours to Sherlock.  Their eyes had not met; but Sherlock could not be sure whether or not Moriarty recognised him.  That voice caused anger to well up inside him, American accent or not.  The way he said “sorry” reminded him of a past conversation they had had.  Once Sherlock was in his seat, he looked back.  Moriarty was engrossed in reading a book entitled “Angels and Demons”, while sipping from a can of Diet Coke and munching on salt and vinegar crisps.   
  
    Sherlock moved to the window seat and finished his own book on bee keeping.  He soon found himself dosing off for the remainder of the flight.  He slept fitfully, dreaming of that afternoon on St. Bart's roof until the pilot's announcement welcoming them to New York woke him.  Sherlock looked out the window at the New York City skyline and stretched.  As soon as the plane landed and taxied to the gate, he was out of his seat.  He grabbed his hand bag from the overhead compartment and left the plane to applause from the frazzled Flight Attendants.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    Sherlock stationed himself at the baggage carousel and waited for James Moriarty to appear.   By the time the first pieces of luggage began to slide down the conveyor belt onto the carousel, Moriarty had sauntered into the area.  Fortunately, their luggage came out at the same time.  Sherlock followed Moriarty to customs and then outside to where the cabs were waiting.  As in London, Moriarty hopped into a cab; and Sherlock grabbed the one behind it, instructing the driver to follow Moriarty's cab.    
  
    Soon they were headed to Manhattan.    
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments - I'd love some feedback on this story. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written over a year ago and lost when my hard-drive failed! :-) It was originally written as a birthday gift for my proofreader, L. This was my first attempt after several years' hiatus from writing, and my first try at writing Sherlock.


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